Everyone's Weakness
by Ruby Casablanca
Summary: "Everyone has a weak spot, and he found mine." "What was it, precisely?" All she did was smile, a slight upward tug of her lips as to indicate her amusement in his obliviousness, because she knew that he knew what it was. Of course he knew.


Everyone's Weakness

_"Everyone has a weak spot, and he found mine."_

_"What was it, precisely?"_

_All she did was smile, a slight upward tug of her lips as to indicate her amusement in his obliviousness, because she knew that he knew what it was. Of course he knew._

Irene Adler had been sitting down at her table for no more than a few moments, and had barely had time to order her tea, before she heard an eerily familiar voice coming from behind her, clearly talking to her though she could not see the owner's face. The owner, however never failed to send shivers up her spine every time she caught ear of its biting yet silky tenor vocals. If she never heard the man speak again, it would be too soon.

"Fine choice, this place." It said, catching her attention before getting down to its usual business. "Do you have the letter?"

"It was taken." She replied, clearly flustered and fearful of what he would say next.

"Taken? Now that was unfortunate…" the sarcasm lining the voice was unmistakable.

"During the chaos created by your package." She explained while busying herself with her tea, trying to distract from the danger behind her. "Perhaps, if you had shared your plans…"

"You wish to know my plans now?" he asked, a tad bit amused. "Did you imagine Ms. Adler that something would happen to you? Is that why you chose to meet here, in a public place, your favorite restaurant?"

The malice in his voice was clear and growing, causing Irene to be seated on edge. True, she had chosen this place as a safeguard for any attempt of a public murder. After all, the professor did have a notorious reputation for leaving no loose ends after his plans came to conclusion. She had hoped that he wouldn't have the common sense to kill her so publicly, in front of so many esteemed figures, but she knew she could not be certain.

As if she wasn't antsy enough, out of the blue came the sound of metal clinking on glass, chiming three times through the bustling air, a usual, if not loud, action for this particular place. But at those three rings, every person halted and stopped what they were doing, only to immediately get up and leave the restaurant at lightning speed. The place was empty within seconds, leaving her utterly alone with the devil himself and another, equally evil looking man sitting across the room, no doubt the source of the clanging. Another one of Moriarty's pawns she supposed.

After everyone had cleared, and she had checked to make positive, she heard the curtains separating the tables be drawn back, and her heart clenched with fear. She had long been in the presence of this horrible man, yet she had never glimpsed his face, and now that she had the chance to satiate her curiosity, she was absolutely terrified to face him.

So, swallowing all signs of weakness, she turned her head until she was face to face with him, his eyes dark and gleaming with a sick humor, a twisted smirk playing at his lips. He was not what she expected, yet everything she had feared he would be. He had the build of a middle aged scholar, nothing to be petrified of, yet the cunning, malice, and intelligence he held in his facial features were those of a true villain. He physically embodied the aspects of both a genius and a murderer, and she was possibly more terrified than before. Before she lost her nerve, she turned away, focusing on her teacup as if it was the most interesting thing she had every discovered.

"I don't blame you. I blame myself. It has been apparent to me for some time that you had succumbed to your feelings for him, and this isn't the first occasion Mr. Holmes has inconvenienced me in recent months. Question is: what to do about it?"

He sighed out the last part as if it was some sort of everyday problem, not like he was deciding on whether or not to end her life, but that was not what terrified her most.

Her eyes automatically dilated at the sound of Sherlock's name. The thought of Moriarty using him as leverage over her still made her cringe; she hated for anyone to have the upper hand over her, yet panic settled in with any thought of Sherlock in any danger. She knew he was an adept detective and possessed skills that far surpassed her own, but she always felt the uncanny need to protect him. There was something innocent about the man who could see everything, yet understood nothing about the world. She felt as if she needed to keep him safe from the harm of men like Moriarty, because despicable men like Moriarty had no problem killing good men like Sherlock Holmes.

She carefully turned to face him again, only to find that his gaze had been fixed on the ground adjacent to him, and his vision was not fixed on her. She didn't know whether to be relieved or just more terrified than she already was. She was growing weary of being so afraid all the time.

"But, that's my problem to solve now." He continued after a long period of silence, another small, creepy smile making its way up his face.

They stared each other down for a good three seconds, each trying to decide what to make for the other, Irene swallowing her fear deeply, before Moriarty broke the silence, his attitude back to business as usual.

"I no longer require your services." His tone was harsh and cold, promptly conveying that their conversation was over as he turned his back to her, returning to his tea as if nothing had happened. She didn't know what to do except stare at him for a few more seconds, before deciding that it was best to run away before he changed his mind and had her done off with.

She quickly got up from the table, mentally scolding herself for not thinking to run sooner, counting herself lucky to have the opportunity to run, and started to make her way down the long aisles of tables. She was nearly three tables away from where she was before when she felt a strange tightness in her chest, which she paused a second for before passing it off as a panic attack due to her intense paranoia. Still, she pressed on, determined to escape from this dark man's sinister web, ignoring the growing tightness until it clearly became hard for her to breathe.

She stumbled into the tables, yet she did not stop, clinging onto them for balance as she started to feel dizzy, her vision blurring. The tightness turned into a suffocating constriction, and her throat and chest felt as if they were on fire, the pain increasingly acute. Soon, she discovered that she could not breathe at all, and when she gasped for air and received none, all she found was her body falling, dragging down a pristine white tablecloth down with it as she desperately grasped for an escape from the growing darkness.

Teacups still full and steaming shattered everywhere, all around her body, leaving little tiny shards of porcelain strewn throughout her hair, the tea dampening her new dress, making its way through the fabric to chill her paling skin. She reached down for her kerchief as she felt her body revolting against her, ready to heave whatever poison it had consumed. Her mind raced through all the possibilities of what the source of her ailment could be, and she realized that the only thing she had consumed that day was her single cup of tea.

Retching into the kerchief, her body shaking, her stomach would surrender nothing, bringing up dry heaves in excruciating numbers. Just as she thought she had no remaining energy, on her body's last spasm, a small spattering of blood appeared on her crisp white kerchief from her raw, aching throat.

Of course. Now it all made sense. Moriarty had planned this all along, regardless of whether she delivered the letter or not. He hadn't needed her in a while; that was what he had his new boy sitting over at the other table for. She was useless, and Moriarty knew that she was a clever woman, so he plotted and concocted her the most clever of deaths. She thought she would be safe in public, safe from one of his brutal murders, but it was clear to her now that not all murders were so obvious, something she should've known given her line of work. Perhaps the worst were the ones that didn't look like murders at all, the ones that could be posed as an accident or just a natural cause.

Her eyes were growing dim, her heart rate slowing substantially, and she could literally feel herself dying, yet she was physically drained and couldn't even speak, none the less move, to save herself. All she could do was lie on the tea stained carpet and stare at the ceiling, thinking of when she would die, and how long she had left before it happened.

She didn't want to have time to think about her life, her friends, her family, all of which had long since been dead or gone, mostly because of her work or reasons that led her to choose her line of work. It only seemed fitting that, as part of a long line of thieves and anarchists, that she would be fated to die for the wrong cause, just as her parents did before her, and their parents before them. She guessed she could say that finding trouble was in her nature.

Her line of work had left her little time for friendships, and the only ones she did form were fake, usually for a task that she had to complete. Friendships to her were things to be created in a moment of need only to be discarded when they were no longer useful, just as her alliances were. The few friends she had maintained throughout her short life were either dead or she had pushed them away for their own goods. She was virtually alone, but that never truly bothered her.

Love was even scarcer for her to discover, and true love was a fairytale in her eyes. Every serious romance in her life had been under an alias and used as part of a scheme to get her closer to the wealth or power that her said target possessed. Once she had the treasure she was after, she left without another word, often leaving in the middle of the night with not as much as a clue to where she had ventured off to. Oh, the hearts she had torn apart in sport; they were numerous! She was unnessicarily cold and uncaring to the doe-eyed bastards, but that was only because she had already locked her heart away and simply had no space left for anyone else.

Every romance she had ever had was fake, save for one. Sherlock Holmes was the only man she could ever say had bested her and he is the only man who had been able to win her over, cracking his way into her heart as if she were a mystery to be solved. His audacity and skill were enough to rival hers, and in a way, he inspired her to be a better person. At least, that was when he wasn't inspiring her to step her game up so that she could actually beat him, which happened quite a few times over their years together. At least, when she made her deal with Moriarty, she was being the better person. The deal was that if she worked for him until the end of his scheme, then Sherlock Holmes would not be touched. She had only stayed the worse person to save his life.

She had no doubt that the professor contained both the power and skill to kill Sherlock, and this deal was the only way to secure his wellbeing. Despite Moriarty's deep admiration of him, she knew that was hardly enough to keep him in his good graces for long. The deal was the only binding long-lasting contract than ensured his survival.

It was then when she realized how deep her emotions for the great detective ran, that she would willingly strike a deal with the devil to ensure his safety. He mattered so much to her that she risked it all to warn him about the threat to his life, knowing hers was on the line, and now to be lying down on the floor, dying in his place, just so that he could live another day. She was willingly giving up her own life so that he could have his, unscarred and still child-like and oblivious. She didn't want him to see her world or be dragged down with her evils. She just wanted him to be safe. And God knows that he will find trouble on his own even with her gone; she couldn't protect him forever, but she could at least save him for just a little bit longer.

After all that she had been through, she didn't think it was possible for her to love like that, so deeply and completely. The only comfort in her death was, somewhere deep inside her mind, knowing that Sherlock Holmes would do the same thing for her if needed.

The tears that edged at her eyes were shoved away as she noticed the return of the professor, his body kneeling over her nearly hollowed one, reaching down to grab her kerchief from her cold hand. He was smiling that creepy smile, and even though she was nearly dead, she still shivered at his touch. She wondered what he would do with her cloth, and supposed that he would use it to torture her poor, innocent Sherlock. He would be so blindsided by her death.

"Oh Irene…" she heard him say, though her hearing was all but gone and she couldn't catch the remainder of what he was saying. She hadn't the strength to try or the patience to read his lips and interpret the movements. All she could focus on was Sherlock.

He had probably forgotten they had agreed on dinner. He probably wouldn't even realize she wasn't there. He was so forgetful when it came to the real world, always remembering things too late or never at all…he was funny like that…

She avoided the professor's steely dark eyes and pretended like they were his warm brown ones with the manic, intelligent glow. They comforted her, and she remembered the first time they had met on that railcar, her first victory against the living legend. She had had no experience in the field yet she had managed to beat the great Sherlock Holmes at his own game. Eventually, they had all chalked it up to beginner's luck…

When she felt Moriarty's clammy fingers brush hers to pull on the kerchief, she imagined that they were his calloused hands holding tightly onto hers as he protected her from falling bombs. They had just escaped death in a slaughterhouse and then were fighting for their lives yet again in a matter of minutes yet she wouldn't have wanted to have been anywhere else as long as she had his hands to guide her…

God, how she wished those hands were there to guide her now, to help her up and carry her to safety. There was a security in his touch that the professor lacked, and that was not surprising, knowing who he was. Still, it was nice to dream of him coming to save her. However, she was still a realistic woman, and in her life, she knew there would be no savior to come and rescue her this time. This was the end of the line.

Her breathing became shallow and painfully labored, the constriction nearly unbearable and any of the non-constricted space had flooded with blood which she coughed up periodically on the expensive Persian carpets. She knew that she only had seconds left; her heart could only take a few moments more of this fragile life. It was as if her body was on a countdown, a timer before it finally gave out and it seemed to last far too long for her liking.

_Ten… Nine…_

Her eyes fluttered shut, their weight becoming too great to withstand anymore, yet she desperately wanted them to stay open. She wanted to know that she was still there, still in existence when the world seemed so unclear. However, somehow she knew she was asking too much.

She wished the world well, hoping it would survive the terrible events that she had helped put in place, events she would never get to see.

_Eight…Seven…_

She promised her parents, wherever they ended up, that she was alright, that she'd see them soon enough.

_Six…Five…_

She recalled her childhood and all the things she never got to do, all the places she had never been, and desperately wished she could go back and change it all, that she could have more time to give it all up and live a normal life.

_Four…Three…_

She remembered her sins, her flaws and scars, and silently prayed for redemption, knowing that it was probably too late to repent. Her time was up, and her misgivings ran far deeper than even she knew.

_Two…_

Breathing was impossible now, her body physically gasping, begging for air that never came, and as she reached for another labored breath, she realized that she hadn't the energy to move. Her muscles couldn't contract to make space for the lifesaving oxygen, and her entire body seized as the searing pain of the breath that wasn't there travelled down her veins, icing them over, her body growing stone cold. How could this possibly be her end?

_One…_

Her final thoughts lingered on love, her love, and how her life, though as horrid as it seemed to be, was laced with it.

Her eyeballs burned behind her lids as she forced them open a last time, the constricting sensation in her chest bringing up invisible tears from her dry eyes. Small inklings came through her failing vision, the dark black spots nearly taking over, though they were strangely welcomed, forming the faces of those she loved best. Her greatest love was the largest blot, the only one she saw with a voice to go with the memory. How could she forget his voice, the sound that felt like soft old paper, tasted of vodka, and sounded of an untuned yet well-loved violin, a voice that gave her the urge to explore every possibility, to follow her intuition whether it is right or horribly wrong? Most of all, she hoped that Sherlock Holmes, no matter where he may be, could feel her love right now. She was dying for him; she was giving up her life to save his, so that he could save the entire world as they both knew it. She only hoped now that he would find the strength to carry on without her.

Correction. She _had died_ for him.

Her time was up.

_"You'll miss me Sherlock." Irene teased as he walked away_

_"Sadly," he responded, gravely serious, "yes."_


End file.
